Take My Hand
by MS Carrigale
Summary: Sherlock, John, and Mary must use all their skills to survive Moriarty's twisted game of Cat and Mouse.


It is dark. Cold. Dreary.

Nighttime. Frost escapes in little puffs through Sherlock's pointed nose. His electric blue eyes sweep left and right, searching for a safe turn-if there actually _is _one. "Sh-Sherlock," John pants, out of breath from running. "Quiet," the detective commands fiercely. He doesn't say anything else. I know what this means. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. "Sherlock," I hiss. "There has to be a way out of here." I am shaking. Shaking with cold, with hunger, pain, fear. Was it only a week ago that I had been kidnapped out of my own home while my husband had been at work? It certainly didn't seem that way. I had never seen who had taken me. I only felt them, felt them grab me and shove a foul-smelling cloth over my nose and mouth. Darkness.

I had come to in a comfortable bed in a nicely furnished room. It was small, but extremely peaceful and lovely for a captive. For some reason, this caused me to become more frightened then if I had been chained to a chill stone wall. Instantly, I scrambled to my feet and began to search for an escape route.

Just like we are doing now.

I had known John and Sherlock were coming to rescue me, but the question was: _when? _When were they coming? I didn't know, so I tried to think. Who had kidnapped me, and why? My heartbeat quickened as I realized that it was possibly one of Magnussen's men...Snerlock had killed him, so was this a punishment? A punishment for Sherlock by kidnapping me to make John panic to in turn make Sherlock panic as well? Or could it have something to do with Moriarty supposedly coming back? I still wasn't sure what I thought about that. But why would he take me? And would he really be so secretive about it? The numerous inquiries in my head granted me an immense headache. Sighing, I massaged my temples and lay a hand on my swollen stomach. How long until my child came into the world? What did the doctor say?

"Well, Mrs. Watson, I'd say very, very soon."

I had been delighted. "How soon?"

"In about a week."

Now, as the three of us press our backs against a large crate to keep ourselves hidden, I close my eyes as a hot tear slides down my cheek. How? How could I have been so incredibly stupid? _How? _

he pain of knowing I was never going to see my baby again was even more excruciating than giving birth to her. I cried. I begged. I beseeched the masked doctors not to take her away from me. Oh, how I begged them. My own words echo in my head now: "_Please! Please, don't take her! Leave her alone! Kill me if you want to, torture me, take me apart, but let my daughter go!" _One of the doctors stared me straight in the face. I shrank back as his dark eyes seem to burn into me, searching my soul. There was something familiar about them; I had seem them before, or at least someone had described them to me.

_"What is he like, John? Moriarty?" _

_He chuckled, but it was a bitter sound. "You wouldn't like him, Mary. You would hate him. If there's anyone who deserves to be assassinated," he paused to look me directly in the eye, "it's him." I didn't need to say another word before he launched into the crime lord's description. "His face was pale, like a ghost's face. Drained of blood, drained of warmth, drained of love, kindness. Drained of anything good. Sherlock once depicted Moriarty as a spider in the middle of a web of crime. Not a man at all. I agree with Sherlock. Moriarty wasn't a man at all. One glance into his eyes was enough to tell you that." _

_"What was wrong with his eyes, John?" I asked quietly. _

_"They were dead." He peered at me. "You have beautiful eyes. They shine. They have a wonderful light of their own that glows, that shows who you are. When a person's heart dies, their eyes turn...dull. Cold. Empty. Moriarty had dead eyes. But the worst part was that they came to life whenever he was thinking about something cruel. They got this glint, like an ember coming back to life after being stomped out. Mary, I've only seen a few truly evil people in my life, and looking into the eyes of Jim Moriarty was like looking into the eyes of the devil himself." _

Had I seen the devil when my daughter had been taken away from me?

I believe that I had.

They arrived eventually, the two of them- John and Sherlock. They came alone. If they had called the police, I would have been killed. They didn't take any risks.

I don't know how long I sat and cried, cried because the child I had been chosen to protect had been taken. I cried because I had failed. I had always hated to fail a mission. But all my other missions were of death. The only mission of life I had been entrusted with had failed, and I was solely responsible. I felt broken, empty. Impossibly empty. I cried like I had never cried before. By the time John and Sherlock reached my room, all my tears were gone. Of course, I was still bawling, but my eyes remained dry. Not wasting a minute, John was comforting me. He pulled me close. He didn't seem to notice that the bump in my stomach was gone. I had to tell him. "J-John," I hicupped. "They-our baby-" "Shhh," he murmured before I could go any further. "I know. There was nothing we could do, it's okay, Mary. She'll be fine. You'll be fine. You're okay now."

All at once, my tears began to fall again, and I buried my face into his shoulder as he held me closely, protectively. Hoping that he would never let go, I breathed in his familiar scent: the warm, wooly smell of his brown jumper. The worn, leathery odour of his jacket. The aroma of his favourite tea. Best of all, I could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. I cried not because I was scared or pained, but because I felt safe. John was here, and everything was going to be fine.

Sherlock didn't allow me to feel too safe for much longer.

"I know you both have an eternal, warm, cuddly, and quite frankly rediculous love for one another, but I think you should know something." I felt John turn his head in Sherlock's direction. "What do you mean?" he asked. In my ear, John's heartbeat quickened. Sherlock didn't answer, but we all heard it: the sound of a lift traveling somewhere in the building. Somewhere close to us.

Sherlock's face was white. He looked troubled. "They're coming."

Without another word, John whipped out his gun and grabbed my hand. "We're going to get out, don't worry," he said reassuringly. I was reassured. I felt safe with John there, and Sherlock as well. "Sherlock," John hissed to the detective. "What's the safest way out?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. "They know we're here now, but they've only just realized it so they must just be sending guards to the exits so we can't escape. I don't know how many guards or exits there are, I don't know the structure or layout of the building, I don't know-" "Sherlock!" John whispered forcefully. "Think about what you_ do _know!"

"Uh," Sherlock muttered, and I saw something in his face that I had never seen before. Was that...panic? 'No,' I told myself. 'John said we'll get out, so we'll get out.'

Sherlock stuck his head out the door, looking left and right.

Exactly like he's doing right now, as we hide behind the crate. How we came to be behind it in the first place is one of the most frightening moments of my life.

Sherlock motioned to us with a swift wave of his hand. "Quick now," he breathed. Sherlock went first, then me, and John last with his gun ready. I almost gasped as a saw our situation. My room was in the middle of a tight, dark hallway. At opposite ends there was each a lift. Sherlock led us to the right. Adreneline pumping through our veins, we stepped into the rather small lift. As the doors began to shut, the lift at the other end of the hall arrived with a little _ding. _I had heard it come up before while shut up in my room. With a shout, one of the 3 huge, muscular men saw us and raised his large gun to fire. And fire he did. But he never hit any of us. Sherlock and John smashed themselves against the sides of the lift. John pulled me with him just in time. Finally, the doors slid completely shut, and we were left desperately contemplating our next move.

"They're bound to have guys waiting when we get down," John told us, breathing deeply. In agreement, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything," he replied. "Yes it does," retortedmy husband. "Alright, stop it," I demanded. "I'm grateful, truly I am, for all you both did to save me, but what good are all your efforts if we don't get out of this alive?"

"The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through our veins..." Sherlock murmured. He and John exchanged glances. "It was worth it." He smiled. It wasn't a fake smile, or a forced one; this smile was genuine. It was probably the last time I would ever see that expression on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

With a tiny ringing noise like the other lift, ours reached the desired floor: ground level. We waited tensely as the doors opened completely. Silence. Cautiously, Sherlock leaned out into the space. After a minute, he pulled himself back in. "Safe," he confirmed to my surprise. "Are you sure?" I questioned. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If it wasn't safe I wouldn't say it was now, would I?" "Shut up, Sherlock," John grumbled. "Let's go." Carefully, Sherlock stepped out of the machine. I was hesitant to follow, but John took my hand. "It'll be fine, he's not lying," he whispered. I cracked a dry smile. "Alright."

Together, we followed the world's only consulting detective into another hallway. Like the floor we had just come down from, there was another lift at the opposite end of the corridor. It opened. Before I could see who or what was indide it, John yanked me to a door next to our lift. Sherlock had already entered. Slamming the door shut, John used the bolt that was already there to fasten the door shut. Taking deep breaths, he turned around and leaned his back against it. "John," I said, staring at the towering crate in front of us. Sherlock was also gazing at it with a mixed expression of admiration, thrill, and horror. "What?" John asked, alarmed, not seeing what Sherlock and I were seeing. At last, he realized it. His face slackenef. "Oh."

It was a maze.

A maze made out of monsterous crates.

Suddenly, a voice rang out: "Well, if it isn't Sherlock of the Dead and his pathetic little friends."

My blood ran cold.

The voice continued, and the figure of a man appeared on a wooden platform ten feet underneath the ceiling and about 50 feet above the floor. "Naughty, naghty," he chided playfully. "Daddy's had more than enough, now."

Even from my positin way below him, I could see his eyes. They gleamed with a light that I had seen only a few times before: this man was evil. It left his identity clearer than a newly cut and polished diamond: Jim Moriarty.

He stood with his hands in the pockets of his freakishly expensive suit. It was so neat that it was really despicable. I could see clearly that he was the master criminal...and that he was proud of it.

I could see the look of shock on Sherlock's face.

"Don't look so surprised," Moriarty snorted. "You're probably wondering why I'm here, and I want to have plenty of time to play the Game, so I'll explain quickly."

"What game?" inquired Sherlock. It was clear that he was slightly interested. However, Moriarty rdbuked him. "Shut up and let me talk," the criminal said with a little frown. "Now, before I was so rudely interuppted, I was talking about the Game. I invented this Game because I was angry at Sherlock for his prompt, hasty, irrational, and stupid decision to not kill himself." Moriarty smiled as Sherlock's nose twitched with frustration and ire.

"I call this a Game of Cat and Mouse."

He paused for a moment to let this sink in. My mind was awhirl. What about cat and mouse? "Let me explain the rules," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together, not even trying to disguise his glee. "There are 3 cats and 3 mice. Oh, look," he realized, positively beaming at us. "There are 3 of you! You can be the mice...and I myself will supply the cats. You will be allowed one gun, one for the three of you. The same will be so for the cats. Once you have all traveled into the beautiful maze that I have created, I will say 'Go!' And the cats will chase you all around and it will continue until the cats have killed the mice or the mice kill the cats." He grinned, his dark eyes glinting. "I've been looking forward to this more than you deem possible."

That is how we came to be crouching behind a giant crate. The game has been going on for maybe 3 hours now. I have no idea what time it is, but I know that it must be night because the temperature has plummetted drastically. But we're all thankful for it; we're all drenched in sweat. 3 of John's 6 bullets are gone, and the cats, the 3 large, ferocious men who had attempted to attack us in the hallway earlier ( it seems like a week ago) still have all of theirs. It's a negetivity for our side.

We're at a stiff spot in the game; when it had first started, the men kept shouting things like "3 blind mice, look at them run...here comes the carving knife!" and "Don't de shy, it's just a little mousetrap!" This didn't help them; it just made us run and hide faster. That's the method: run, hide. Run somewhere else, find a good hiding place. Run. Hide. Run. Hide. It just goes on and on and on, seeminly endless. Is it possible this is where we'll spend the rest of our lives, in a warehousr playing Moriarty's sick and twisted version of Cat and Mouse? I hope not.

"Sherlock," John repeats himself. "Which way now?" The detective is just about to direct us towards safety when Moriarty's voice sounds in the dark. "Alright, this is getting booring," he groans with an overdramatic sigh. Obviously, he's noticed our repetitive (but useful) method. "Change of rules," Moriarty announces. He takes a second to chuckle darkly to himself. Then he states the new rule:

"From now on until the end of the game...groups are not allowed. You must split up. The game is on..._now." _

Instantly, we hear the cats' booted feet head in 3 seperate directions. I'm just wondering what we're going to do when I feel something cold and hard being pressed into my shaking hands. With a sharp gasp, I look down. Then my eyes meet my husband's.

John has given me the gun.

"Stay safe," he whispers. Then he pulls me into a kiss. It's not long, but it's not short, either. All of my worries evaporate as I'm filled with warmth. Finally, Sherlock says, not in an annoyed tone, but rather a gentle one: "We should get moving." "I love you, Mary," John murmurs. "I love you too, John." Hurried footsteps are about to turn the corner, but we still take a moment of staring into eachother's eyes. And I know that whatever happens, nothing can tear us apart. This gives me a new strength and a new courage that I have never known before. For this reason, I have no fear as the cat rounds the corner.

He has a gun. He's quick...

But I'm quicker. Wthin seconds, he's dead with a bullet buried in his heart.

John smiles. "That's my wife," he mutters approvingly. We look at eachother one more time before he disappears down a corner. Sherlock stares at me with a sad smile. "Thank you," he says. I smile. I know exactly what he's talking about, but I ask anyway: "What for?" "For saving John Watson...and for saving me." I begin to walk towards him, planning to give the normally emotioness detective a hug, when Moriarty states a reminder: "Seperate!" I obey...after I throw my arms around Sherlock and tell him that he's the best detective I know.

Now we're all split up. I'm a little more confident now that I've taken care of the cat with the gun. This will make the game far easier for us to win. I just have to be careful to shoot the right people...just as I'm thinking this, a figure unexpectedly rushes out in front of me. Swiftly and efficiently, I pull the trigger, delivering a killer shot to the abdoman. Satisfied, I stalk past the body of another cat.

Two down, one to go.

Moriarty doesn't like this. I can tell because he announces another new rule, and his voice is slightly more high-pitched than usual. "Very good, Mrs. Pet. I see that you are _very _good at this. A little _too_ good. Therefore, game twist! I am releasing 3 more cats into the maze, and this time...

_This time they all have guns. Good luck protecting the people you love, Mary Watson." _

"I hate you!" I scream up to Moriarty. "I hate you!" I point the gun at him, fully prepared to paint the walls with the contents of his skull. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Moriarty warns me. "If you do...I'll kill your baby." I gasp and my arm falls down to my side. Moriarty laughs. "I thought so," he murmurs. "Well," he says loudly. "Let the game continue!"

I hear a person coming. It's not John's quick, short-stepped run, and it's not Sherlock's quieter, purposeful footfalls. These are heavy, clompy. A cat.

Alarmed, I draw back around the corner at the same time John and Sherlock do. They are both weaponless. "Mary," John gasps when he sees me. "John," I greet him. "There was one chasing us, too," Sherlock informed me. "What?" I ask, rather sharply. In answer to my query, two burly men emerge from my end and the opposite one. Clenched in their hands are guns. The 3 of us stand backs to eachother, me facing one man, Sherlock the other. John is kind of in the middle. But it's no use.

We're surrounded. We've lost the game.

Slowly and carefully, I place my weapon on the ground and raise my hands in a gesture of surrender. The cats stare at me, their faces expressionless. "We surrender," I say, thinking that maybe they don't understand.

They do understand.

They just understand wrong.

The bullet slams into me. There's a sudden splurt of blood, and the force of the shot pushes me backwards into John. "Mary!" he yelps. Then he sees me. "Mary." He gasps first, then screams again: "_MARY!" _I hear him, but he sounds far away. I feel the hot blood seep into my clothes. I feel a slight chill, and I shudder, but I feel no pain. My body is numb. I hear 2 more gunshots, and Sherlock collapses and lays still over my legs. I feel a sweaty hand take ahold of mine, and I squint to see who it is. John. "Hold on, Mary," he says softly with a smile. "It'll be okay." I smile. John. Always there for me, always there to comfort me. "John," I mumble. I know I've been shot, but I am strangely calm. "Hmm?" he says. "There were 2 shots. I know Sherlock got one...where did the other one go?" Sherlock stirs, causing the first pain to shoot up my legs. "It's obvious," he mutters, his words just the slightest bit slurred. "The other bullet went to John."

That's when the pain starts.

It blinds me, and it feels like my body is on fire. I feel like screaming, but instead I allow myself only a small whimper. "John," I cry. He squeezes my hand. "I'm here," he assures me. But he sounds out of breath, like he's just run a mile. Something's wrong, but suddenly I feel tired. So, so tired. The pain is still there, but not half as horrible as it was a minute ago. "John," I whisper. "Yes, love?" "You are the best thing that could possibly have happened to me." My own words leave me breathless and exhausted. John responds with a cough. "I love you," he murmurs. He's leaned against the side of the maze wall, but now he let's himself fall forward and lays his head down on my chest, careful not to disturb my wound. He gives a deep sigh. I can feel Sherlock's ragged breathing on my leg, and by the time it stops the pain is gone and I can barely keep my eyes open. I am determind to stay awake as long as John's heartbeat, that strong, steadt beat that I love so much, is still pumping. I am aware of it; he's literally lying across me, so I can feel it. For awhile, it's strong like normal. Then it slows. Slower, less constant, weaker.

When it stops, I gratefully close my eyes.

I'll see John and Sherlock again soon enough.

In another place. In another life. I'll see them again.

Someday.


End file.
